


mint

by dreadwoof



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian is wearing only a bathrobe, M/M, Pre-Romance, The Inquisitor has a new map, Unresolved Sexual Tension, for now, of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 21:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwoof/pseuds/dreadwoof
Summary: “How... romantic,” he said, remembering the unslept nights at the astrariums. “My dear man, you’ve found the stars.”





	mint

_Hope, is a constant. Almost mathematical in its nature, reliable in a way predicting the weather in a desert would be, and above all the one thing you should never dare to raise. Known to be the cause of a few abominations--_

Dorian smiled acidly. A little feeling in the pit of his stomach told him where this would go.

He cracked the pages open again. “-- _a few abominations set loose on their masters. Through gathered evidence, many of them appeared unaware of the ‘optimistic’ state their own servus were indulging in. One should keep in mind that unbending rigour is what sets apart a good citizen of Tevinter from a fool. Mercy is merciless. Freedom dangled to the head of a slave is wasted. If there is any hope in the heart, then the mind is lost, as the demon-_

“I think we’re done here,” he whispered. With a casual throw the book landed on one of the top shelves, as far as possible from the sanctum of Dorian Pavus, the _bad_ citizen of Tevinter. He scratched off ‘Malice Maleficarum’ from the list Leliana had written for him, as nothing here aids the Inquisition, and then yawned. He stretched his legs before him and watched the smooth crimson silk of his robe slowly slide down his skin, always a shade lighter in the moonlight, always prettier when no one was looking, always…

“If you stay here long enough, I might start to think you’re stalling.” He looked up at the sudden visitor of his sanctum, caught off guard. “Always so suspicious, Aien.”

The man in front of him skipped a step at the sound of his name. There was a question in his brows but he didn’t voice it.

“You know at some point you’ll have to get used being called by your name and not Inquisitor,” Dorian said, tightening the robe around himself. “At some point, that is, since you surprisingly enjoy the sound of it too much.”

A small smile. “Not really.”

“Correction,” he raised a hand, the other passing through the candle flame, “You draw enjoyment only when it’s purred beside your ear, yes?”

The Inquisitor now fully ceased his endeavour at appearing like a man not waiting to be bedded, though luckily one of his elbows supported him by being placed on top of a shelf, the lower ones, as his knees had given up and he was crouching now. Dorian hid the self-satisfied laughter behind his wine glass. Sharp Dalish eyes gulped down the movement.

“Your hand is trembling,” they noticed. ( _Aien_ noticed. Andraste he was drunk already.)

He didn’t even finish sipping, “No.”

“Oh now I believe you,” his friend’s eyes softened, and an awful knowing smile split his face. “I can walk you to your room.”

Dorian grinned, and loud enough to echo, “Why not yours?”

If there was ever a situation that he couldn’t escape by talking, it was this exact one. Tongue-tied and apparently trembling, the handsome (and bad, of course) Tevinter altus suddenly stood up, defiled in his own mint-scented sanctum, by none other than the desire of his heart (and groin).

And it was turning aflame in front of him, blushing rotten unless he intervened, crushed the hope of something bigger for them that was bad, bad, bad.

“Up,” he commanded, briskly gesturing with his hand like a parent at a scolded child. It wasn’t far off, with the way the elf stared up at him. “Inquisitor, there are duties you must attend to.”

Said Inquisitor jolted up. Dust rose with him from the sudden movement. “Come with me.”

Dorian took up the offered elbow. “Oh?”

* * *

The travel up to the tower was quick. The moon was setting. Night birds were singing. Dorian pretended he wasn’t winded when he climbed up the stairs, and Solas nodded an awkward acknowledgment at Aien’s way when they inevitably crossed roads.

“Have you seen my sister?”

A small pause. “Your quarters are empty, lethallin.”

Dorian snorted, patting the arm around him. “Ah, so you checked.”

The apostate’s eyes glared red at him, as if saying ‘ _You are one to talk.’_

“Send the paperwork later to me then.” Fortunately the Inquisitor cut it short, with an oblivious and eager smile on his face, one that Dorian very much agreed with. “Let’s not keep him from his work.”

Solas didn’t waste any time to sprint down the stairs and leave, and neither did they. Dorian resumed his climb, watching two lean calves in front of him skip two steps at a time. “You’ll trip that way,” he said.

“I’m Dalish.”

“Yes you are,” Dorian huffed. _And I’m terrified._

The door clicked behind Dorian’s back. Glittering particles tangoed in front of his eyes, in and out of the open windows, the effect so wickedly foreign and Inquisitor-y that it drove him down to where the sofa was. He always did seem to be sitting somewhere, lately.

“Where are you going?” he asked, conscious of the state of his clothes. Or rather cloth.

The way Aien turned back to grin reassuringly wasn’t very assuring, which made his chest burn, damn him. He ran towards the one corner of the chamber which was in eternal disarray, that had the desk which held the weight of a thousand letters, pleas and negotiations, secret spy reports, love letters, and even the occasional illiterate hate letter (read out loud during breakfast to lift the spirits of course).

Aien was feverishly digging through an urn with some map scrolls. Was he attempting to impress with his geographical knowledge?

“This isn’t what we’d call foreplay, is it,” Dorian drawled. He suddenly noticed Aien pull out a long, midnight blue scroll. His eyes were strangely piercing when he finally turned to Dorian, shaded like the very same mint he preferred, as if he was trying to say more but didn’t want to break his own happy reverie. It pulled something from Dorian’s throat and he gulped those few words of his own back, reminding himself of how little he knows, truly knows, about anything to do with real desire.

“I wanted to show you this, Dorian,” Aien spoke, voice a pitch higher, and motioned at him to get up.

Dorian did so, groaning inwardly when a part of his spine cracked. He walked up to the desk, tutting at the mess, and then stared at the unrolled parchment of rich blues between Aien’s hands.

An astral map, of all things.

“How... romantic,” he said, remembering the unslept nights at the astrariums. He lifted his eyes up at Aien. “My dear man, you’ve found the stars.”

He watched the rosy mouth go slightly agape, eyes flickering back down to the map. “I found something else–my dear man.” He shifted his weight. “It doesn’t look like it but it’s the newest rendition, dating from the Blessed Age.” He tapped at the center, the other hand smoothing the parchment. “Hand-drawn. Josie almost fought the Orlesians for it.”

Dorian grinned, somehow captivated. “And who won this battle?”

“They did.” The corners of Aien’s lips twitched. “Unfortunately it was lost shortly after. A Red Jenny assault, if I remember correctly.”

Dorian couldn’t help but spit out a laugh. One clever exchange and his mind was suddenly reeling with vigour. Even Aien looked pleasantly surprised.

“You’re very awake,” he breathed quietly, still watching.

“Stars have that effect,” Dorian replied, visibly swallowing.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 will be an optional, smuttier continuation of this story ;^)


End file.
